She Belongs To
by ShadowBright1998
Summary: A Three-Shot about Bellatrix Lestrange. Slight themes about how she becomes herself, with distinctive measures thought up in my own mind. Narrator is unknown, to everyone else, that is. Feel free to guess. Rated Teen for suggestive themes. Bellatrix/OC in first chapter.
1. She Belongs to Nobody

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or anything related to the topic. All rights are... etc., etc.**

**Now that _that _is done, on with the writing!**

* * *

I watch the colors as they fade away. Purple, blue, black, grey. How simple they seem, though in all matters, each night brings a more complex matter. People drift into my palms, pressing forth the knowledge of their outcome. The lights dim, and yet I keep working. But for some reason, I remember each color. It's my only way to stay stable, my only way to keep the job processing. Purples, blues, and blacks touch my heart. And no matter where I go, there is grey. Grey for the hearts, grey for the lines. And I remember it. I remember it all.

Mostly, I remember her. I recall the exact moment our paths crossed, the day she first witnessed me. That day brought forth a spilling palette of green, with a tiny dot of yellow placed across her forehead. Sweat. Nausea. But the sky... The sky was a mixture of night, a dark mixture of blues and blacks, speckled with the reminder of hope. Stars. Yet her eyes drew me back, back to the dying figure at her feet. She had killed, for the first time. And however much I pitied the murdered being, I looked at the girl, with her mess of black, and felt a small smile climb up my ethereal being.

She somehow knew I was there. She felt it, that girl. Each aching breath fell past chapped lips, and it ushered itself into my damp face. As I remember, I feel her face, each breath. She was a piece of music, crescendoing into the height of life. Although waxy, her song-like features whispered truth, the pale caress of yellow mixing with dark splotches of grey.

She _was _grey.

Her hair shone with the dark recess of her mind, mixing in with a small portion of grey. Grey for knowledge. Grey for feeling. And yet, I know her ending. I recall the last moments, and how she was certain success was hers. But now, with her small ideas, her loss of hope, it is hard to think of what she would become.

I softly lifted out the soul of the deceased man, watching as his body fell silently to sleep. It was an empty shell, no more, and as I looked into the depths of the male's eyes, I pressed him silently along my shoulders. The beginning of an era was to come, and more would rest upon my body, but now there was one. There was enough time to stop luxuriously, to watch the child.

She whispered towards the air, pressing words passed her teeth. "I'm sorry! I didn't want you to... To..."

It never got out. She could not voice the words, and as she whispered, I slowly faded backwards, stealing a small glance at Bellatrix Black. Did she actually mean them?

I could not figure out, until moments later, when her sister swept out, a mass of golden locks, though paler. "Bella," came the gasping sound, one that I assumed was her voice. "Bella."

This one could not see me. This one did not know. I disappeared, the Earth swallowing me upwards, dragging me into my own domain. I would not see her until two years later, when the next victim's corpse rolled onto the ground, a less considerate glance being tossed upon it. She would be eleven. She would belong to nobody.

"He was touching me, Cissy. He tried to touch me."

That was what she told me, when our paths met for the final time. That was how she explained it. And her sister would have none of that, shoving away her elder sibling, just to see into the face of the culprit. The murderer sighed, quiet trickles of ice becoming tears, the swept feelings of rage and depression becoming an overwhelming whirlwind.

"Cissy, please! He was trying to..."

The words wouldn't come out. Narcissa simply stared, and pushed away the body; one of many. They simply sat, bricks in the soft clearing, blankly watching a shell.

"Mother sent me to collect you," came a quiet voice, the third of the daughters forcing her way into the green sea. "It's time to go, Cissy, Bella."

But the request came upon deaf ears, and naught was replied, not until Andromeda forced her way past the hunched bodies, her gaze landing upon a pair of sightless eyes. Gasping for breath, the youngest tore her small mind from the item, staring at her sisters for a lie, one of an endless sleep. Anything but truth.

Nothing came. Nothing was uttered. It took forty minutes to gather themselves from something akin to me.

* * *

I saw the child again. Plenty of times. And each time, the sky was different, paints melting together to end in grey.

"I belong to nobody."

Four syllables struck the air, pushing back the cruel boy leaning over a pale child, their faces reflecting against the ice of a lake. The sky was grey, speckled with a lavender tone, and before long, I would be memorizing the colors as I collected the spirit of the boy.

But this time, it was not her fault.

"Come on, Bella," he whispered, brushing away the black tendrils of her locks. "You won't belong to him. You'll just..."

She would indeed belong to _him_. That man, the one who made my job never ending, all because he required the world. But the meeting was not only about belonging to Tom Riddle. It was about belonging with the boy, staying with him forever. Perhaps, if he had lived, she might have married a man she loved, and one with the same ideals. Perhaps, if _he _had not struck next, there might have been a happy ending.

If only her best friend had fallen into the lake as well.

But he did not.

I slowly think upon the reds I saw that moment, that second when the world nearly exploded. I think how many things could have affected the outcome. Had they not fought. Had he not loved her. Had Riddle not made a mistake. But it happened. Indeed, everything happened.

Their words connected with flesh, and she bruised him beyond recognition. His face was scratched with blood, the blood of her hissed insults. Her own face was marred with the love for him, and the things she thought herself. And before anything could happen, before more words could have been spoken, there was Inferi. There were trolls.

There was me.

The bodies of the dead maneuvered their way towards the pair, picking the bones off those who passed. They wanted the lake, to simply state. They wanted the water. I do not know how she survived, seeing as the things desired her safe haven. I might speak the minds of the Dead, I might be Dead, but I could never understand why they chose to gorge themselves upon the boy.

Both children froze, and so did I. Already had I appeared, placing the bodies along my shoulders, the children in my arms, but the next second changed my thoughts.

He pushed her, shoved her, forced her toward the lake. The boy thought he could save her.

The sky was grim, speckled with orange and red, somehow causing the blank factor of innocence to remain. I sighed, and he sighed, and all was gone. Slowly, my fingers picked up the child's spirit, and I found myself turning towards the girl's face, her gaunt features speckled with fear.

He loved her.

And she belonged to nobody.

* * *

For some reason, our paths met again that year, though I could never guess why. It simply made no sense, for we had no reason to make acquaintance with one another, save for the simple fact that I refuse to give. But I must, and I feel that she will think less of me in the outcome, though her spirit has left to meet that of a young boy she loved.

She had tried to kill herself.

The potion took four days to make, and as she pressed the vial towards her lips, the young girl closed her eyes, aching for life to be easier, promising the world that everything would be better without her. Sadly, she was correct in that assumption. If only it had worked, or if the boy had never died. If only her heart did not ache.

There are too many 'If only' statements in her life, and as I recall this past, I think upon the short lived moment that she could not pass by.

Slowly, like fire tasting the water, liquid tipped closer towards her chapped lips, and I finally felt the tug of her soul, the one I had met twice. Her face was blank, like the parchment towards her right, and as my hands enfolded her body, the poison connected with her tongue, had fallen past her throat. Like a thrown doll, she collapsed, her body arching inward to touch the ground, to feel the soft carpet.

My fingers reached inside her chest, feeling around for the soul, tugging on the soft feel of her life. But nothing came, as if the girl was slowly ebbing away. Her heart was silencing itself, and for the first time, I had entered the realm to early. She was not quite dead.

Slowly, I sat next to her, and placed my fingers next to her own, watching as the light faded from her dark eyes. I felt things, for the second time. I felt pity when the boy died. When she died, I felt relief. Hope. Her life could continue as it should have, with her hands in his, though neither of them lived past thirteen. But fate had a different opinion of her life. Fate felt something different.

A small figure rushed inward, throwing back an oak door, displaying a shocked look upon pale features. The sister, the one who was ushering in to wish her sibling a 'Merry Christmas'. The sister, the one who instantly ran down the steps, searching for a parent who would come in time to save the child.

She didn't want to live. She belonged to nobody, and nobody was her savior.

Within moments, fingers were scratching at her skin, blood tugging at the girl's veins. A wand jabbed her throat, a bezoar searched for. And yet, the time could have finished. My own hands were back within her chest, gently removing the soul. She was nearly in my arms.

The sky was a dark grey, red and blue flickering in and out. The room was dimmed, and with the little light, I could make out black. Grey. Purples. Every dark color was evident in the absence of life, and as the child shuddered lightly towards life, I felt my pull along her spirit flicker. She was fighting the will to survive, pressing closer towards my hand. I obliged; they tugged her back.

Her lips parted towards the sky, heavy breaths falling slowly. Her chest shrugged, her head nodded. The light seemed to grow, aching towards her heart. Blue melted, turning to purple, which changed into black. Black was her thought, and I, un-content and irritable, fading into the dark. But not before she saw me.

The girl seemed to greet my face equally, bowing her head in shame. And when we last spoke, the night she truly came towards me, I remember the words.

"I knew you, once. You hated me. You refused to take me. Why couldn't you?"

I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. But I couldn't. She was forced back towards life, just as my fingers would have sent her home. After all, she belonged to nobody. Nobody.

And as it was spoken towards her, I utter it myself. Merry Christmas, Bellatrix Black. Merry Christmas to you.

* * *

**Well, now that I got all of this down on paper... This will be a three-shot, if that's what you call it. Three chapters. That's all. **

**_Swatting all the Nargles,_  
**

**__Shadow**


	2. She Belongs to Herself

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**Thank you to those who read, as well as those who reviewed. It makes me smile when I get them!**

* * *

Mortals scare me. They feel things, and it is quite frightening to one who has no soul, who loves naught but the grim recognition he gains from work. And it sends me towards a dark place, when I come across them, for I must take them from love, from homes, from people. And none are all to excited to go. But, no matter how many times they scream, echoing pain across my icy chest, I repeat the simple fact told to me when I myself was created.

This is my job. This is what I must do, and you must do the same. You exist only for me, and I exist only to serve. But from my heart towards another, using the words that I can only create, I say this, and this only. I do not like it. I do not enjoy shepherding you all into the midst of a new world, alone. But it is my job, and the job prevails.

She understood. She let her tears run down my aching body, soul finally setting itself free. Bellatrix Lestrange sat up in her vessel, awaiting me, and as we departed, only spoke of sadness and truth, ignoring what she had done. The woman might have been deemed to be without a drop of pity, her heart full of the sadistic trials of Earth, but she sat forward. She accepted. We spoke of her life, and of the second sections in which our paths crossed.

How ironic that I will see these mortals no more than once, and yet, she was there for a great deal of my life. If I was even capable of love, much like Tom Riddle, then perhaps she could have been mine. I could have ripped her from the plane in which she walked, and placed her directly next to me, so that she could help gather the spirits of her own choosing, placing them deep in the desert of lies. And we could weave among ourselves, and we could love, for nobody would be able to understand her but I, and she for me.

Yet none seem to have the misfortune that she did, watching her love pass on, then observing her own marking as equal. None were required to be forced upon another human, told that they were to be her husband, and that she was to carry on the name of Black in silence. Only she. Only Bella.

But she belonged to herself.

* * *

The child had threw herself towards the bed, tossing away every ounce of dignity to break the sobs in silence, pillows forcing breath into a slower motion than necessary. But she was not a child anymore. She was indeed a warrior princess, a teenage girl above her own years. No longer would her mother offer slight words of consolation, if ever possible. No more were her sisters to spend time in her room, speaking sweetly upon theories. No. She was to prepare for the wedding, and although her age was naught but seventeen, it was to happen that summer. She was to wed a Lestrange.

In all honesty, the brothers were not horrid, though they were not her choice. If she had one, her choice would have been Lucius Malfoy. But, according to her parents, all though he was in _her _year, his heart belonged to Narcissa. Not by any individual choice, of course. But that was being a Pureblood. That was life.

And she hated it.

Yet there was no way of release, no other higher purpose to whisk her from the lifetime of terror. Bellatrix was stuck, forced within a twisting table of glue, her body being repeatedly torn from what she wished, what she felt. The first attempt at death had brought nothing. I could not save her. She could not save herself. The second time, if there was one, would not be enough. It could not work, now that she had to rely upon her family, to carry forward a name synonymous with Pure.

"Bella," was sung across her room, and the waterworks ceased, slits of ebony emptying themselves of emotion, feeling floating away. Slowly, the door opened itself to a man, a strong man that felt nothing as well. Rodolphus pressed his way into the strangely decorated room, his own blackening eyes gazing at the obvious obsession with the Dark Arts. How similarly his own walls were adorned, and yet, how different. Her wood was proclaimed with the Dark Lord, her own collection of books, and a scrubby corner dedicated to the art of Potions. The silver and green of her bedspread was delicate and lovely, showing off the obvious pride and money, silk spreading a luxurious look of water. His own was simply lived in, yet there was no Potions corner, no Dark Lord wall. He had his space, dedicated towards spells.

Quietly, their eyes met, and he practically threw himself towards her lips, rosy cheeks gleaming in the weak light. She gasped, she slipped, and somehow they managed to meet upon the bed, his hands scratching her sooty curls, rubbing her arms. "Bella," he gasped again. "Bella."

She froze, unable to respond, not until his lips were against hers once more, becoming more desperate in the pleas. And she shoved him, forced him away, becoming a viper awaiting attack. The water became beckoning, and he was back, and she darted away. War. It was war. Long fingers found his throat, pushing him away, and his snagged the grey of her uniform, prying it, pushing it. No. No, no. The girl raised her arm, and her walnut wand pressed towards his throat.

"No. Stop. Stop!"

His motions matched her own, and they were disheveled, the grim nothings sticking fast along her ruby lips. Panting, frightened, confused. Simply teenagers, and yet, forced by their parents to think of partaking in love. "I don't belong to you," she whispered. "I belong to myself. I belong to me."

She belonged to herself.

I collected his spirit shortly after the second Wizarding War, my palms scratchy against his cheek. Quietly, he matched her own fingers, and they walked onward, love truly filling cheeks. The rosy faced boy, the grim girl. And she still did not belong to him. She never will. She belonged to herself.

* * *

I learned her life from her own words, and I loved it as my own. But there was a time where my own path strayed from her life, connecting with her younger sister's. There was too much death in the Black family. There was too much death to bare.

"I don't understand her, Teddy, I swear! She doesn't make any sense."

The man's fingers were entwined within her own, and although they were within the boundaries of Hogwarts, and therefore subjected to humiliation, Andromeda and Ted were sauntering around the path of Hogsmeade, heads nearly touching.

"Why not? She seems to make enough sense to me. Bella wants to be left alone, love. She wants-"

He was interrupted by a wailing voice, the girl tugging him into the shadows between Zonko's and another disheveled shop. "She wants to be dead! Dead!"

It was barely a few days prior to the eldest Black's attempt to join my ranks, and although she was cleared to return to Hogwarts, both siblings had kept a particularly sharp eye upon her, glaring profusely at any one that dared to venture forth in comfort. Bellatrix did not need comfort. Bellatrix needed her sisters, or she required a great deal of anti-depressants, though in reality, it was neither. She needed me. She needed to die.

"Dro, think, love. She just needs time. She lost her best friend, she lost..."

He trailed off, pressing a swift kiss upon the woman's pale face, gently tilting her head upward to receive the next one. "She lost everything," he finished quickly, and ended the sentence with his breath mixing with her own.

"But she has me! She has me, and she-"

My entrance cut them both off, sirens tainting the air with their glory. And although I enjoyed observing the sweet words, leaning up against their lives, it was an entrance that I must make, for love was to test its barriers again. Our bodies mingled for a moment, and then we parted as one, swiftly moving towards the Three Broomsticks, the place that required my attention the most. How ironic that it is not her own story, but Bellatrix had entered this memory as well, standing out quietly in the background, just as a twisted body left itself upon the ground. The happy male's best friend.

It took a few moments to paint the picture, the orange sky soon basking them in an eerie light, and as every soul took in the peaceful recognition of my handiwork, I had lifted the boy from his body, and we settled of in a placid gliding motion. Nobody screamed. Nobody cried. They simply took one another's hands, walking closer to search for the cause. And the cause, she jumped backwards, tearing herself away. Only her sister recognized the motion. Only her sister understood.

"Well," Andromeda muttered in a bitter tone, sweeping herself away. "She _does _belong to herself. Apparently he couldn't respect that."

Both Black's melted into the dark orange light, and Ted Tonks slipped to his knees, attempting to keep his heart from ripping, his life from shattering. He had lost a brother, and faith in his love. Could it not simply work? Could nothing work? I had ruined his life, and hers.

But the boy deserved it, for she belonged to herself.

* * *

**Alrighty, then. This one proved to be much shorter than the last, showing only two stories. I'm sorry if it sucks, if you're confused, or if you hate it. But tell me, please! Review, or at least favorite. **

**Completely Sirius,**

**Shadow**


	3. She Belongs to Me

**Author's Note- **Well, this will be the last chapter for this lovely story. Hopefully it will be long enough, but I doubt it. As a simple statement- I technically should have posted this story within the Crossover Category for Harry Potter and The Book Thief. However, such a domain does not seem to be viewed, it is simply placed here. Please keep this in mind when reviewing and reading.

As a Disclaimer, I do NOT own **'Arry Po'er. **Nor do I own **The Book Thief.**

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange's death day did not come as a surprise to me, nor to the many that find themselves stuck within my realms. Some have claimed that she 'had it coming', and one woman, though she passed ages later, had remarked a cruel statement. But she did not realize that humans may change, and they may go along as something better, something different. The woman may have died a villain, but her hopes and fears were entwined into the lovely fabric of time.

Her moments of shaded gray were no longer shocking, and they fell in shimmering folds past her shoulders, and down the curve of her body, until the sheets were simply there. It was all of her own skin, her lithe frame, her own temple. I refused to shroud hope over a being this _pure_, though none seem to agree with her ideals. She believed in something. She had caught hold of hope and held it within her arms, refusing to waver. Yet humans criticize this woman, and force technicalities upon her frail head.

I do not understand the formalities of this inhumane world. You continue to talk of believing in higher power, and she was a higher power. A darkened angel upon the rocky earth, and although she was classified as 'insane', her heart was within the correct place. Why question your own theories? Why question the theories of your parents? Only once did she, and it caused pain beyond belief. Chapped lips had cracked at the words, insisting that following in footsteps was a mere remembrance of the past they strive to eradicate.

And the witch had learned not to question, after a mere minute of torture. It was easier to float along the patterns of history than challenge each and every bump in the path. Never did she bother with new ideals, and the decision was made at ten.

But her life did not end at ten. Her life ended much later, at the war that caused my aching back to be covered with the spirits of those who did not deserve such a horrible end. Yet it came, and I simply responded, following the strict idea of keeping all items equal.

When I collected her, she was frightened. Terror streaked across the gaunt face, and became a lovely patina that was sweat. Shiny, aching sweat that my fingers reach out to touch, trembling at the mere touch of a torn being. Such light never emitted from any others, and that luxuriously sweeping light blossomed within my palms, stretching languidly towards the sky, a cat within the palm of its owner. I was her owner.

She belonged to me. Only me, nobody else.

Is it strange that one such as I could imagine to hold a creature of her caliber? One who had evaded my grasp for many years, and suddenly approached with tentative steps? Yet I could do nothing more than watch as her spirit folding into my welcoming arms, and basked in the glory of a complete success. The one inscribed upon my list finally rested within heavy arms.

But we did not speak until ages later, as if seconds slowly ticked by in dramatic recognition of fallen soldiers. Many of her side caressed the ground with their torn flesh, and spilled forth the liquid of heart and life. They piled up within her fingers, and soon after my arms, until I was crawling within the last breaths. It was not a pretty sight.

They were red.

Thick, crimson ribbons poured from gore, and soon after graced the stone floor of the battlefield. It would take ages to rebuild the school, though that was not my job. I was only to send on the deceased bodies. Yet I still found myself admiring the structure, for some reason, because of one fleshy item tucked behind my ear, the treasured spot. A young Fred Weasley. He too was red, the disgusting scarlet color that lurks within young children's dreams.

I hate the color red. It is not regal, it is a reminder of the boundaries of life, how much can spill from the lovely glasses of wine. The tint is always shocking, always disturbing. No good has come from red, not in the societies I have been swept within. Though the Eastern countries find it to be luck, I still stand upon my firm boundary of disgust. Crimson, scarlet, rose, brush, garnet. Each and every hue that floats to soulless eyes still can usher forth the utter feeling of disgust.

What I feel for red, these people felt for the witch.

And yet, when my fingers scraped her away, she said nothing. Her words were absent, her eyes glazed over, and even in spirit form, she was frightened.

The moment of judgement was no different.

* * *

I take piles at a time, the groups of life forming once more in a cohesive clump of dead souls, simply shimmering within the aching light. No matter their positions within my army, I still talk quietly, and allow a thick smile to be applied to my ghostly lips. But they are not fooled. They understand my part, as I understand theirs.

We are all merely servants, forced to take the positions within a setting we might not wish to partake in. If I had the choice, I would not be collecting their souls, nor would I weigh them against one another. Yet we must stay within the invisible lines settled at our feet.

And, with quiet understanding, each individual found themselves staring at my face, each allowing a new emotion to take the place of fear. Loss, confusion, hatred, desire. Longing. But she did not. Bellatrix Lestrange refused to allow anything to speak her actions, and simply forced the words off her lips, the words asking why I hated her.

It is shocking to realize the mistakes of humans, and still be blamed for them.

I simply nodded my head in her direction, and with the whispered papyrus of my voice, asked for her name. I did not expect her to cry, nor did I believe she would bury herself within the arms of her husband, whom she barely felt emotion for. He continued to glare like I did something, but the rosy shades of his cheeks showed the innocence of such a people. They knew nothing. So, slowly, I took the chance to ask him, ask him in the voice cracked with age.

"What is your name?"

It was all in the name. Their lives rested within my hands, and it was the name that would deem them safe or not. Quietly, he responded, and then the next, and another, until only the witch remained, her eyes clouded with suspicion and hate.

"Your name," I remember repeating, and my throat folded over, the swallowed words barely forcing themselves past my lips. Gray. The world around us turned gray, and distributed itself gently around her feet.

Bellatrix Lestrange continued to cry, sob, and did not straighten for many a minute, until her lips formed the words I had awaited. "My name is Bella. My name is Bella."

And, slowly, her hands touched the sky, exalting each and every ounce of material dividing her from the mortals, those who were fighting endlessly. I barely had an hour before the next shift, and in order to urge it onward, my digits climbed within her ebony tendrils, snaking the substance through my dangerous heart. She did not flinch. She was becoming better, she was becoming calmer. Her chapped lips tugged downward into a frightening frown, and in disgust, thrust away my touch, demanding to speak with someone different.

All I can do is bow, and when I tilted my head downward, she glared, ignoring my words.

"Someone else will be here for you in a moment. The rest will move on to the afterlife."

It is amusing when the sentence is finally voiced, for many were convinced that this was their final position. No, they had quite a few feet of battles ahead, and none would be a shallow victory when passed. It was harsh, horrible, and those who completed it found themselves happily reincarnated, and the rest simply sat within an eternity of companionship. A strange world, but one dictated kindly. Only the determined live on.

And she cursed me, like many others had, while the rest nodded their heads to achieve their punishments- or success. But the woman simply sat herself down, the black billowing robes becoming real, and finally, the surreal beings around me floated upon a breeze.

We were gone.

* * *

She must have waited ages, for her companion took ages to decide upon taking a visit, settling himself a few feet away from her body.

And she belonged to me, to us.

The girl cried out, and nearly shrunk in upon herself, extending a hand to touch, feel, and possibly stroke the being. Her friend. Her love. It had become reality in too much time, and as if afraid, the hands tore back, body scraping against the damp canyon floor. The ripping sound echoed ominously throughout the darkness, and he too gasped, stepping backwards.

"I was not told it was you that I must guide forth."

It is true. He was not warned, for if one was told about the perilous journey ahead, they would not be capable of succeeding in the long marathon ahead. I simply murmured innocently about a being afraid to journey forth, and true to his position, the boy- now man, strode forth.

Man. Bellatrix did not think he would be a man. She thought that the boy would have stayed forever young, never letting the thick boundary of time press upon his being. Yet he had, allowing each and every year of her own weigh upon his own shoulders. They were equal. They were the same.

Hesitantly, she spoke, and with the failing part of her voice, cracked out, "Why?"

Why did you leave? Why did you die? Why didn't you take me _with _you? It was very near to a wail, and they were near to the breaking point. Darkened eyes stretched the tunnel vision of blue, and with the flurry of emotion, she shrunk back one more. It could not happen. She could not let it happen. Her life was better. The Dark Lord! He would save... No. No, she was dead. Dead and gone, beyond even the capabilities of the greatest wizard.

"You are thinking of him, my Bella. He who you swore you would not belong to. Do you?"

No, because she belonged to me, her pillow of innocent gray resting gently within my heart, testing the strength that I held. She belonged to him, and he to her, their arms soon entwining, bodies becoming one. She was an achieved being. He was home. And, almost tentatively, they were changed, morphed, years later. One within the arms of a Weasley, one in the hands of a Malfoy. Once more they were fated.

But they still belong to me. You all belong to me. Each and every soul, with the aching pounding of its heart, it is mine. You are of me, of my domain.

Belonging to Me.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Alright. Finished, complete! I hope you all enjoyed it, and don't find the ideals offending in any way. I tried my best to keep the aspect of religion out of it, not deciding upon a Heaven, Hell, nor higher power. Simply Life and Death, with rewards. Thank you all for reading!


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